by Barry Lyga
Hey, Doc—bet you wish I was still "flying under the radar," huh?
"Dr. Goethe, I didn't set fire to those flags. I was at a party Friday night. All night."
His jaw locks in place. He leans on his desk with his fists, and I really wish I were in with the assistant principal, the Spermling, right now. Because the Spermling may be eleven million pounds of blubber, but the Doc looks like he could come across that desk and rip me to shreds before I could take a step toward the door.
"A party."
"Yeah. Seriously." I throw on my best "earnest" face. I have no idea if it's working or not, but what the hell. "Ask Leah Muldoon. She'll tell you." Ooh! Brainstorm! "Heck, ask John Riordon. He'll tell you. I was there all night."
He snorts like a bull.
I see my life flash before my eyes. It doesn't take long and what I see is pretty pathetic.
Then he sits down.
"OK, Kevin, have a seat."
Saved!
"So, you had nothing to do with this? This wasn't some misguided strategy to win the hearts and minds of your classmates?"
"I'm telling you—I was at the party all night." Not a lie.
He picks up his phone. "Miss Channing? I want John Riordon. Now."
Oh, boy.
"I've been leaving messages for your father to call me and talk about all of this," the Doc says, gesturing as if "all of this" is some kind of gas in the air. "He hasn't gotten back to me."
"He's a busy guy." That's not really a lie either, is it?
"Tell him he needs to call me. Got it?"
"Sure." I'll have to make sure I forget that at some point.
John comes in a minute later with a look on his face like he's disappointed there was no trumpet fanfare for him.
"Sit down, John. Look, you two, this has gotten completely out of hand."
"I'm not the one who set fire to a bunch of flags," John says.
"Neither did I!"
The Doc holds up a hand. "I'm not blaming either of you. But clearly you guys have managed to kick up a ruckus, so I'm looking to the two of you to help put an end to it."
"I didn't start this, Dr. Goethe," John says, "but I'll be happy to help end it."
Brownnoser.
"What's wrong with talking about free speech?" I ask. "Why does it have to end? Don't we have the freedom to discuss these issues?"
Dr. Goethe gives me a stern look. "People are setting fire to things on school property, Kevin. That's not free speech. That's arson."
"That wasn't anyone from my side," John says like the sissy-boy he is.
I shrug. Because it's not like I can say the same thing.
"We need a safety valve," I say.
"What was that, Kevin?" The Doc's eyebrows shoot up on his smooth forehead like big furry caterpillars on speed.
"A safety valve. Like in history class. When things got rough, people would migrate west. We need something like that. Something to let the steam out."
John laughs. "That's the stupidest—"
"Hold on, John." He holds up a hand to silence John, who was about to whine and pout and cry. (No, not really, but it makes me feel better to think it.) "I let you guys on the announcements and you both whipped people up into a frenzy. So now I'm going to let you guys settle them down."
For the first time ever John Riordon and I look at each other in agreement. Because we're both thinking, What the hell is he talking about?
"We're going to do another debate," the Doc says. "This time it'll be in the auditorium. With the entire school there. On ... uh..." He looks at a calendar. "On Wednesday. You'll both have your say and you'll both tell your groupies to cut out the shenanigans."
Another debate! A rebuttal. That's all I've ever wanted.
"I'm in!" I say. "But I get to go last this time."
The Doc looks a question at John, who shrugs. "I don't care. I'll debate him any time, any place."
"Then it's settled." The Doc pauses for a second and gives both of us a significant look. "It had better be settled, boys."
***
I've missed first period, so I head to my locker to reload my backpack and hey, great, someone has written "I H8 TROOPS" on my locker in marker. Very original and crafty.
But as stupid and as juvenile as it is, it bothers me and here's why: because it's just bull. I mean, I think of my dad out there in the hot desert, not much older than I am now, with a gun and orders and not much else. How do ribbons contribute to that? They aren't magical. They don't accomplish anything. You know what I think? I think they're not for the troops; I think they're for us. Those of us at home. The ones who feel guilty for sending troops out there in the first place.
Because it seems to me that the best way to support the troops is to not send them off to die in the first place. And the second best way to support them is only to send them off to die when you absolutely have to. And the only way to know that you've done that is to talk about it, debate it, examine it, and make damn sure.
Because the world changes every day and maybe the circumstances change, so you keep talking about it so that you don't make a mistake and send someone off to die for the wrong reason or for no reason.
So I tell Fam all of these deep thoughts when she comes over to my house at night. We sit out on the porch and go through ten billion Web pages she printed out for me. It's like a free speech gold mine.
"Why didn't you just say stuff like that before?" she demands. "It sounds a lot better than what you did say."
Ouch. "I don't know. I guess I didn't think of it. I didn't really put it all together until after I did all this stuff. I feel like I'm always playing catch-up. It's like, I do something and then I figure out why."
"Poor widdle Kwoss." She pats my hand and I get that whole uncomfortable feeling again, thinking of our hug on the catwalk. "Don't worry—we'll have you ready for the debate. Look at this stuff." She leaves her hand on mine as she hands over some more papers.
And all of a sudden, I'm thinking of King Arthur. No, really. Follow me here. We read about him last year in English class. Like, Arthur was married to Guinevere, see? They were hot and heavy. And then Arthur's top dog, Lancelot, showed up. And the next thing you know, he's getting busy with the queen!
I'm no genius, but is it possible that Flip=Arthur, Fam= Guinevere, and Kross=Lancelot? Is that what's going on here?
Oh, man. I don't want to be Lancelot! But let's face it—Fam might be the only girl I ever get to kiss, if my luck keeps running the way it's always run.
I wait for a break in the conversation and then I say, "Am I supposed to kiss you now?"
She freezes. Almost as an afterthought, she takes her hand off mine and puts it in her lap. "What?"
"Uh, never mind."
"No, I think we'll go right on minding, Kross. Did you say you wanted to kiss me?"
"That's ... that's not what I said. I was ... Jeez, Fam. I don't know. Am I supposed to kiss you?"
She stares at me. It's like being called on in class when you don't know the answer.
"You were just ... Fam, you were being nice to me, and I thought you wanted me to—"
"I'm nice to you because I like you. Not because I want to jump your bones."
OK, it's official—I know absolutely nothing about girls. I was pretty sure before, but it's nice to have confirmation.
And wow. Have I completely screwed up the one decent relationship I have with a member of the opposite sex or what?
"I'm really sorry, Fam." I mumble it while looking down at my feet. That doesn't mean I'm any less sincere. I just can't look in her eyes.
"I'm with Flip," she says, frosty. "I can't believe you would even make a move—"
"I wasn't making a move. I swear."
"Then what were you doing?"
Oh, God. "I thought you wanted me to kiss you."
There's a long pause. I finally work up the courage to look at her. She's all stony-faced. Then a little crack in the stone.
"Are you sayin
g," she says slowly, "that you don't want to kiss me at all, but you were going to do it because you thought that's what I wanted?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds really pathetic."
"Kross!" And she laughs. Thank God. "It is pathetic! What is it with you and girls?"
"I don't know. Please don't tell Flip what I said. I'll tell you something only Flip knows."
Her eyes light up at this. "Oh? What?"
"You have to promise not to tell anyone."
"About what you're about to tell me or about kissing me?"
"Uh, both."
"This better be good."
I take a deep breath. "OK. Look. This whole thing. All of it." I gesture to the sky. "All of it. My dad started it."
"Huh?"
I tell her about Dad making me throw away the ribbons. And how I told Flip, and his reaction.
"So I guess that's even more pathetic, huh?"
She thinks about it. "Actually, I think it's pretty amazing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you could have gotten out of this a long time ago. Yeah, people would have made fun of you for your dad making you do it, but that wouldn't have lasted. Instead, you went with it. You made it your own. And that's amazing."
God, when you put it that way, it sounds like maybe I'm not a total and complete waste of space.
"I'm so proud of you, I'm gonna give you a hug, Kross. Try to resist the urge to propose marriage or throw me down and ravish me."
I hate her.
Chapter 31
Stupid Fantasy Time
I STAY UP WAY LATE AFTER FAM LEAVES, so I decide to skip school on Tuesday. I've had enough of the nasty glares and all of that. Dad will sign a note for me if I ask him to. When he says, "Why didn't you go in?" I'll just say, "I needed a mental health day. I needed to opt out of the opt-in society."
I should be prepping for the debate, but instead I spend most of the day watching the tapes. And looking at the picture. My trophy.
I imagine what it would be like to tell Leah the truth. Well, part of the truth. Telling her how much I ... how much I like her.
You could have told me, she would say, and the words are like a spear through me, but the tone of her voice is gentle.
You could have just asked me for a picture, she would say, laughing, when I confessed to stealing hers.
I would have given it to you myself, she would say, putting a hand on my arm. It's OK. You saved my life that day. I truly believe that. If you want a picture, that's fine.
And she would grin at me, a beautiful grin that makes me warm and—
Ugh. What the hell is wrong with me? That's not happening. That's not going to happen.
***
Halfway through the day, the phone rings. Someone frosty and too polite from the car dealership tells me I can pick up my car.
Right after that, I get a call from Fam. "Hi, secret lover," she says. "I'm e-mailing you a bunch of research I did during study hall. Can you go to the library today and get it?"
"Yes."
"Glad to hear it, babycakes." Thank God I didn't tell her my King Arthur theory. I'd be "Lancelot" from now until the day I die.
"Hey, Fam. Do you think Flip is jealous of all the attention I'm getting?"
"Flip doesn't know how to be jealous."
"Maybe he should learn."
Funny—I can almost hear her smile over the phone.
I decide to walk to the dealership. It takes me about an hour, but the rain has tapered off for now and I don't really care. The mayor isn't around—he's off mayoring, I guess. But two more ribbons have been slapped onto the back of my car, and this time they're actual sticky bumper stickers, not removable magnets. Great. Revenge on a teenager must be so sweet, Mr. Mayor.
I consider what it would take to remove the stickers with minimal annoyance, but then I get a better idea.
I go to the library to pick up the e-mails, but I also spend ten minutes researching something else on the 'net. Yeah, it's possible. And cheap, too. I place my order and feel oddly powerful and satisfied.
When I leave, the rain starts up again. Perfect.
Chapter 32
The Debate (DUH)
IT'S STILL RAINING ON WEDNESDAY MORNING when I wake up. I guess that's appropriate. I'm extra careful driving to school—I don't need to wreck my car along with my life.
It is—to use Flip's favorite word—surreal that this is actually happening. Dr. Goethe has actually canceled first period for the entire school. After homeroom, everyone goes to the auditorium. Mrs. Sawyer guides me backstage, along with John. What would she say if she knew I had the key to the janitors' office back here? Or that I spend way too much time up on that catwalk?
I made a decision yesterday.
Yesterday, while I put the finishing touches on my opening statement, I decided that I was going to push this as far as I could. My mom used to say, "In for a penny, in for a pound," and I never really understood that until recently. But it's like I've stepped partway into the quicksand and I might as well see if I can swim in it now. Even though I might drown.
Then again, I just might reach the other side.
After all, what do I have to lose? Leah is never going to be my girlfriend. The people who don't like me aren't going to suddenly change their minds. So I might as well just keep pushing.
I go to the auditorium and look out front before I go back backstage. The big screen they show movies and stuff on is lowered into position from the ceiling. I wonder why?
Backstage, John and I wait for Dr. Goethe with Mrs. Sawyer. I wore a tie today, mindful of how professional John looked the other day, but he's just wearing a blazer (with his flag pin, of course) and a shirt open at the throat. He looks way cooler and more relaxed than I do. I'm tempted to take off my tie, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's gotten to me. And let's face it—no matter what the situation, Riordon's always gonna look better than I do.
One of Mrs. Grant's media helpers shows up and talks to John and I hear John say, "...hook up my laptop."
"What?" It spills out of me before I can stop it. John looks over his shoulder at me and smirks and says absolutely nothing.
His laptop? He's hooking up his laptop?
Dr. Goethe joins us backstage. "Um, Dr. Goethe? Can I talk to you for a second?"
He looks at his watch. "We don't have time for this."
"I didn't know we could do presentations..." God, it sounds weak and pathetic. John laughs as he hands a laptop bag to the media guy.
"You don't have to do a presentation," Dr. Goethe says, totally missing the point. "Just talk. You'll be fine."
Before I can protest any further, he gathers John and me together to explain the rules: He'll go out there first and talk a little bit. Then John and I will come and stand at our podiums. We each get a couple of minutes for an opening statement. Then we each get to rebut the other guy and ask questions of each other. Then we each get a closing statement. And then, best of all, the audience—the entire school—will vote on who won the debate. I'll lose. I mean, there's no question about that. The only question is by how much.
"As we agreed, Kevin," the Doc goes on, "you'll get the last word. And remember, you two." He looks at us sternly. "Remember: You're using your closing statements to tell everyone to calm down and stop this nonsense."
"Yes, sir," says Riordon.
"Right," I manage. My brain is still on Riordon's laptop.
I'm gonna get creamed again.
"And nothing personal, you guys. Keep it clean."
It takes the Doc a while to calm the crowd down. Eventually, though, he does and he goes into a little spiel about the Power and the Promise of Free Speech and how it's at the Heart of our Democracy and it's a Gift Between the Generations, starting way back with the Founding Fathers and blah blah blah. I'm totally prepared, but I'm terrified anyway. I mean, I was prepared last time, too, but that didn't stop Riordon from scoring points.
&n
bsp; So after a million years, the Doc reminds everyone to hold their applause until closing statements and then introduces us and everyone ignores him and applauds anyway as John goes onto the stage.
There are boos when I come out, but the teachers in the crowd cut them off pretty quickly.
I walk across the stage, amazed my legs can actually work. Bright lights shine down on me and every freakin' kid at South Brook is out there in the audience, watching.
Other than that day at the football field—which seems like it happened a million years ago to someone else—I've never in my life had so many eyes on me. Still not used to it. John is fine with it—he is used to this. He gets crowds screaming and cheering for him all the time at football games.
I get to the podium and grab it like it's a life preserver. I can't lose it now. I have to do this.
Dr. Goethe explains the rules to the crowd and then asks for John's opening statement.
"Hi, there, South Brook. I can't believe that we have to go through this again. I really can't. But that's OK. This is important. Important enough to explain more than just once."
John clicks a little gadget in his hand and the movie screen lights up with a video.
The video.
"The Battle Hymn of the Republic" echoes throughout the auditorium. The flags of Sweden, Denmark, Australia, Canada, and Norway burn.
Hissing from the audience. I guess I should be freaked out, but there's this part of me that can't help being impressed—the video looks pretty good up on a big screen. Flip did a great job.
The video ends. John leaves it frozen on the last frame.
"So," he says. "Someone burned flags this weekend." He doesn't exactly turn to look at me, but he jerks his head a little bit in my direction, and people get the point without him actually, y'know, pointing. "I guess someone thought that was funny. I don't. Oh, don't worry—I get the 'joke.' I talked about burning a flag last time, so someone decided to burn a bunch of them. But none of them were American flags, and then this person decided to make a very unpatriotic point: that all flags are equal because all flags burn the same. There's nothing special about our flag, we're supposed to believe—it burns like everyone else's. The implication was clear: 'It's just a flag,' they say. 'What's the big deal? Chill out. Relax.'"